


A Quiet Day

by sweetlovegone



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlovegone/pseuds/sweetlovegone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She takes a deep breath. Stands up straight, lifting the bow until the arrow rests beside her lips. Pulls the string as tightly as she can – and for a moment she is completely still, her eyes locked on her target in front of her." Part of a series of Post-Epilogue One Shots. A Quiet day with the Mellarks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Day

She takes a deep breath. Stands up straight, lifting the bow until the arrow rests beside her lips. Pulls the string as tightly as she can – and for a moment she is completely still, her eyes locked on her target in front of her. And then she releases, the arrow flying through the air and lodging itself in the tree she aimed at. Not quite on target, but not bad for her first time either. Her eyes narrow in a scowl that mirrors mine exactly, and I suppress a smile.

“You can’t expect to be perfect on your first time,” I tell her. She turns to me, her braids swinging. She wanted to wear her dark curls down today, but I reasoned with her that it would be highly impractical shooting in the woods, so she immediately insisted on her hair being put in two braids.

“I bet you were,” she pouts sitting on the rock beside me. I smile and put my arm around her. At eight years old she’s at a wonderful age where I can take her out in the woods without holding her hand and yet she still thinks her mama and daddy are the greatest people in the world.

“Not a chance little duck,” I say. “In fact I’m almost sure I missed the tree altogether.”

“Really?” she asks in disbelief, her nose wrinkling slightly.

“It’s all about practice. The more you do it the better you’ll get,” I tell her. I omit the part where I had to practice in order to survive, to simply have food on the table. She knows about some things – about the games, how Peeta and I were involved in bringing them to an end – but she doesn’t yet understand the harshness of the world we grew up in.

Without a word, she rises from her perch, picking up the bow I made for her 8th birthday and the arrows I fashioned, and aims again at the tree. I let her keep practising until mid-afternoon, when we pull at least a dozen arrows out of the tree and start to make our way home. “We’d better go and pick up Ruben. Your daddy’s probably had a busy day managing him at work.”

I let her carry her bow and arrow back through the meadow, something her father would probably have a panic about. Whilst she tends to not think her actions through like me, she’s smart about some things, particularly this. After two years of begging and pleading to try shooting, she knows to be sensible right now.

As we walk through town, Willow attracts an assortment of hellos and ‘just like your mother eh?’ from passers-by. She tends to attract smiles on a normal day; her bubbly personality and thirst for knowledge tends to have that effect on people. When we reach the bakery we enter through the back door so as not to attract attention. She leaves her bow and arrows outside and takes her boots off before running in. I linger at the door.

“Well, look who it is!” I hear one of Peeta’s assistants calling out. Normally Willow spends any spare moment with her father in the bakery, so much so most of them have adopted nicknames for her.

“Daddy!” I hear her shout out as I linger in the doorway. From my view I see her lifted up into her father’s arms as he spins her around, her giggle filling up the room. It’s moments like these when I’m so thankful I got up out of that chair all those years ago, that I let him back in my life, that I finally said yes. I still remember his smile on the day she was born – I don’t think he’d smiled like that since the day of our toasting.

He notices her hair in the two braids, her jacket, her boots in the doorway and then looks up at me with what I’m sure are tears in his eyes. He puts Willow down and makes his way through the kitchen over to me, pulling me into his side. I wrap my arm around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder as he places a kiss on my forehead.

“She asked for the braids, I promise,” I say before he can. The last time she wore her hair in two braids had been on her first day of school when she insisted, and I remember after waving her off at the gate he scolded me for almost making him cry in front of the other parents.

I’m almost lost in my own little world when I hear my son scream and my instinct kicks in. I look up quickly but it is just to the site of him being chased by his older sister, flour streaked across both his cheeks and hidden in his blond hair. Peeta mutters something about it being a waste but I know he’s not angry; in fact I don’t think he’s ever been angry at our children. I relax back against Peeta as Willow catches her little brother, pinning him to the floor before they are scolded by one of Peeta’s helpers.

“Almost as much trouble as your parents,” I hear her mutter, although she smiles and winks at us, a twinkle in her eye.

As soon as Ruben is released from his sister’s grasp, he runs up to me and I scoop him up and place him on my hip, where he normally rests. At the age of four, he’s looking more and more like how I remember Peeta on our first day at school, the only difference being his straighter hair and light grey eyes.

“Have you had a good day?” I ask him. He nods contentedly, snuggling into my neck. Peeta leans over, wiping the flour off of his face and shaking his head.

“I’d better let you get on,” I say to Peeta, although I don’t make any attempt to pull away. One of his assistants, who is playing with Willow, must hear me.

“Go home Peeta, you haven’t had an afternoon off in months,” she says. “You deserve it.”

“Yes daddy! We can go home and I can show you my shooting,” Willow pipes up, skipping over toward us. She stares up at him with her big blue eyes that neither of us can say no to, and I know his answer before he even opens his mouth.

“If you’re sure,” he says. She insists and he goes and gathers up a few things, giving out orders to do before the end of the day and meets us by the back door about five minutes later. Willow and Ruben set off slightly ahead, having already put their shoes back on, and she tells him about her day whilst holding his hand. They can be rough at times, but when it comes down to it, Willow is fiercely protective of her shy little brother. Peeta takes my hand and we walk home in the afternoon sunshine, letting our children walk about a couple of metres in front of us, just out of earshot.

“How was she today?” he asks once we’ve made it through town.

“She wanted to be perfect first time of course,” I say. “She’s not bad though. She hit the tree about a dozen times although none were on target. It’ll be a while before she aims at anything moving though.”

“Do you intend on her aiming at anything moving?” he asks seriously. Peeta and I have always tried to provide our children with things we didn’t have growing up but still making them aware of how precious things like food are. I still hunt because it keeps me busy and Willow knows that, she’s seen me a few times. At first she was slightly shocked when I picked up the dead animal and put it in my sack. But she braved watching me skin it and prepare it without too much fuss.

“She’s tougher than you think,” I say, because it’s true. Whilst she is far more bubbly and thoughtless than her younger brother, she also has a quiet maturity that’s seemed more evident of late. I remember when she came home after her first lesson about The Hunger Games, and she appeared more thoughtful than shocked. Of course, at her age they don’t go into detail, but she knows the basic principle – and I remember her asking me, after learning of my involvement if I killed anybody, and I quietly replied yes that she didn’t react with disgust. Instead she put her arms around me and said _‘they were mean for making you do that’_.

Peeta doesn’t reply, just squeezes my hand as we walk home. When we get home, he ends up baking with the children for the rest of the afternoon. I watch for a while, but then they send me away telling me it’s a surprise for later. I go upstairs, and wander for a while, but end up in the place I always do when I have no purpose. Her room.

I don’t cry for hours like I used to. Instead I sit on her bed, unchanged from the way it was left twenty three years ago and think about her. I’m not sure how long I’m there, but I find myself curled up on her bed when I hear the patter of my son’s footsteps down the hall, his sweet voice calling out for ‘mama’.

“In here,” I call out, and a minute later his face appears in the doorway. He lingers, and then slowly makes his way forward over to me.

“Are you sad, mama?” he asks. His eyes are wide and concerned as he reaches out his tiny hand toward me. I make myself sit up and lift him up onto my lap. Instead of sitting down, he stands on my legs so he can look me in the eye.

“A little. But I’ll be okay,” I say. This doesn’t appear to reassure him though, and he wraps his arms around my neck and I hold him close. It still amazes me how intuitive he is. My son, who’s terrified if a fly lands on his arm, always knows when anything’s upset me.

“Was this Auntie Prim’s room?” he asks. I nod. “It’s very pretty.”

I smile. “Now what were you originally coming to get me for?”

His face lights up, “Dinner’s ready! And we have a surprise for you after!”

“Hmm, I wonder what that is.” He giggles as if I know nothing and I let him lead me down the stairs, his hand curled around my fingers.

Peeta’s made lamb stew and after dinner I’m presented with a cake and some cheese buns that Peeta managed to sneak home from the bakery. We move to the living room after dinner as we usually do so Peeta can watch the news and the children can play together and tire each other out. I find Willow paying more attention to the news than usual, which annoys her brother as she is distracted from their game. I curl up beside Peeta, not particularly paying attention to the news, just content to sit there with him.

After a while, Peeta turns and whispers quietly to me, “Katniss look.”

I raise my head to the sight of my children curled up in blankets on the floor in front of the fire fast asleep. “That was quick.”

“They’ve both had busy days. Ruben kept everyone on their toes today”

“Really?” I ask. “That’s not like him.”

“Not causing mayhem or anything. Just wondering around, hiding in places he shouldn’t and scaring people when they go to get some ingredients out of a cupboard and find him instead.” I can’t help laughing at the image of quiet little Ruben innocently playing his favourite game, hide-and-seek, and frightening half of the bakery staff in the process.

Soon enough we’re both yawning too and we carry the children up to bed and tuck them in. Ruben doesn’t stir one bit, but when I go to kiss Willow on the head her eyes flicker and she gives a small sweet smile, before drifting off again. I meet Peeta back in our room and find him already under the covers, a sleepy smile playing on his lips. I quickly change and climb under with him. He pulls me close and I contentedly rest my head against his chest.

“Ruben said you were sad earlier,” Peeta says as I’m about to drift off. I pull back and am met with a concerned stare.

“I went for a wander and ended up in her room.” I don’t need to say her name for Peeta to know. He just knows. He always does. “I’m okay now. Thank you for the cake, and today.” He smiles, relieved, leans forward and kisses me.

We pull away and I find myself just quietly staring at him, something that has come to be a luxury. It’s odd – before Willow was born, we had an abundance of time to just spend together. But for the last eight years, between the children and Peeta running the bakery and taking care of Haymitch, it’s been difficult to have much time together alone. But we find each other in times like these, late nights and early mornings in bed, walks home whilst the children walk ahead, in the kitchen whilst they play in their rooms upstairs. His hand finds mine and I know he’s there. Always. 


End file.
